The Other Nine
by Lilan
Summary: More drabbles and double drabbles written for Cressida. Lots of Faramir here!
1. Flower

**Flower**

Small feet patter on the stone floor, and little Faramir runs into the chamber, short of breath after an apparently long run.

'Mother!' he half-gasps. 'There is such a pretty flower in the garden! Come quickly, I'll show you… I don't know its name, so you'll have to tell me!'

'So bring the flower here and show us,' Denethor suggests.

The child looks horrified.

'But then the flower won't be there anymore!'

'But it would be here.'

Faramir ponders, then shakes his head and says firmly, 'This is not the same,' before finally succeeding in pulling his laughing mother out.


	2. Stories and Dreams

**Stories and Dreams**

'I almost finished my book about the magic deer, Father,' Faramir murmurs, yawning.

'Very well, son.'

The Steward is at last at the nursery door with the drowsy child in his arms; his lady already awaits him there, smiling.

As he carefully puts Faramir into bed, the boy stirs, his eyes wide-open again.

'Father… what if I dream about the book and know how it ends before I finish reading?'

For an instant, there is an anxious look in his eyes, but then he smiles.

'Then I will just check how true the dream is to the book,' he announces.


	3. Birdwatching

**Birdwatching**

'Faramir! What are you doing up there?' Boromir cries, seeing his little brother sitting on top of the garden wall.

An indignant hiss is all the answer he gets.

Boromir is no fool – after all, one is not supposed to be at the age of eleven. So he quietly enters and quickly climbs up to the spot where his brother is.

'What is it?' he whispers.

'Well, nothing now,' Faramir retorts, annoyed. 'You scared them!'

'Them?'

Faramir points downward, and finally, Boromir sees it.

A small brown-grey bunch of twigs, dry grass and moss in a tree fork below them contains five rather ugly baby birds.

'Oh!' he breathes out.

'Chaffinches,' Faramir whispers. 'Quiet…'

They sit in silence for what feels to them as a long, long time, and are soon rewarded when a bird with a blue-grey "cap" on its head almost whizzes to the nest like a cute plump missile. The young burst into demanding, indignant squeaks; the parent stuffs food into one of the eager beaks and flies off in search for more.

The brothers look at each other with excited grins.

For even at the advanced age of eleven, one is entitled to some simple delights.


	4. A Lesson

**A Lesson **

'Now that you are standing facing one another, press your palms to your opponent's.'

The youngsters do it, chuckling softly and teasing each other. Boromir watches from aside as his brother stands opposite a sturdy lad, perhaps two years his senior.

The instruction continues. 'Your task is to make your opponent step off the spot he is standing on.'

_This is not a fair match,_ Boromir thinks, shaking his head slightly. _Faramir will lose this one…_

And then, just as everyone presses forward, puffing, young Faramir suddenly withdraws his hands, only to reach out again to steady his bewildered adversary.


	5. At the Waterfall

**At the Waterfall**

Henneth Annûn, the Window of the Sunset, fairest of all the Ithilien falls and a welcome refuge for a weary soldier. The young Captain of the Rangers stands near it, and the last rays of the setting sun outline his fair face, so stern and so soft at once, and in that so alike to the mighty fall.

For thin and delicate and fair is the veil of the water, and yet behind it the many sharp stones fill the Forbidden Pool, and woe betide the fool who would dare to disregard the quiet warning of the eternally falling drops.


	6. A Moment

**A Moment **

My son moans and calls for me.

Long was my vigil at his sickbed, and vain I thought my hope that he would speak to me, and he did not – not until now.

The wizard talks to me, and I answer, and still my heart longs for my Faramir, my child, burning in a deathly fever. Alas, he will not rise from it.

And then anger surges in me; I laugh at the Grey Fool before me, and the Evil One laughs at me from the depths of the Seeing Stone.

The wizard took my son. Me, he will not.


	7. Riddles

**Riddles **

'All right, my turn!' Pippin announced.

He half-closed his eyes and chanted, 'What can run but never walks, has a mouth but never talks, has a bed but never sleeps, has a head but never weeps?'

'Now, this is easy,' Faramir chuckled. 'A river!'

'You are doing well,' Merry nodded gravely.

Faramir chuckled again. Indeed, the notion of a riddle was not alien to him, but it took him some thinking to work out the ones the hobbits have been showering on him for the past half-hour.

'Would you like a riddle from me now?' he asked, eyes twinkling.

'Give them a hard one,' Frodo said, yawning and stretching.

'All right,' Faramir said. 'Here is one.'

Pippin, Merry and Sam all listened intently.

'What's better than the best thing and worse than the worst thing?'

There was a silence as the hobbits frowned in hard concentration.

'So?' Faramir urged.

'Begging your pardon, sir…' Sam ventured, 'nothing comes to mind!'

Faramir laughed.

'For _nothing_ it is, Master Samwise!'

The hobbits stared at him for an instant, before bursting into a fit of merry giggles.

'You see?' Merry finally said. 'Even the Big Folks can do well at riddles if taught properly!'


	8. Refreshments

**Refreshments **

They are in one of the Citadel's secluded gardens, finishing their luncheon. They always try to have it together when busy in the White City.

'Which kind of luncheon is it today, Pippin's?' Faramir chuckles.

'Definitely,' his wife laughs. 'Fresh brown bread, cream cheese, boiled eggs and lettuce with creamy sauce, seedcake…'

'Wait, was seedcake not part of Frodo's?'

'Oh! Indeed, Pippin's favourite is apple pie!' Eowyn exclaims.

Faramir takes a good swig of cold tea.

'Shall we have Frodo's lunch tomorrow then?' he suggests, winking. 'There would be…'

Eowyn's expression turns just as mischievous as his, and they finish together, 'Mushrooms!'


	9. Enough and More

**Enough and More**

Eowyn loves the many conversations she has with her husband: he fills them with a wisdom and depth unknown to her before, and yet her own judgement is not undermined by them.

She loves his gentle touch which makes her melt in his arms.

But often she looks at him unnoticed, and sees the springy youthful grace of his walk, the confident movements of his strong arms, the quiet determination of his carven features sometimes tempered with a smile, the soft yet keen light of his eyes – and feels it will suffice her to merely sit, and watch, and admire.


End file.
